William Stafford, the poet, was asked once if he wrote every day. Yes, he repied, he did. He would rise early (before his children were awake) and write for an hour or two.
What, his interrogator, continued, if you you just don't feel inspired that day?
Well, he replied, then I simply lower my standards.
At the moment, I'm sorry to say, I'm lowering my standards on everything. That's right. It's crazy blow-out give away time at the Lictor house of standards. Come get your sub-standard work here! Accept no substitue! For a limited time only (I hope.)
All of which is a lame and rather long winded way of saying, I've had no chance to write a sensible Cant column this week. No, really. I've spent the week flying to and from Houston and every waking minute (well, almost) with my butt polishing a chair in a virtually subterranean meeting room.
That being said, I neither want to simply leave dead air nor to dash off a few words on some obvious and easy subject, just to get over my feelings of guilt. No. Instead I'm writing you an apology and offering you the promise I'll do better next time.
Not that I think my usual produce is anything particularly note-worthy. There's no implication that my Cant columns are somehow a rare and precious commodity, the body of which can never be sullied with anything less than perfect. No sir. But at least I have to feel they're worth reading, and I won't write one unless it is.
So, sorry for the absense of actual content. I can only hope that you have skimmed down to the bottom, noticed that there's nothing to read, and moved on. With any luck you've already gone. Thank goodness. Now I can finally divulge that really tacky personal secret about the huge plucked goose, the family-sized jar of crisco and the Kofe Annan action figure.
Hey. You're still here. Bugger off.